


You Were My Greatest Mistake; I fell in Love with Your Sin

by impassivetemerity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Religion, Sex in a Confessional, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2013-03-30
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:12:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impassivetemerity/pseuds/impassivetemerity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When he was six, sitting in a church pew next to his mother with deep purple bruises on his ribs in the shape of her fists, Jim knew he was going to hell. It didn’t bother him much, nor did he care about the state of his eternal soul, mind going over the chemical equations and formulas of various poisons flitting to and fro like the rushing of white robed altar boys between the rows of parishioners collecting alms.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Were My Greatest Mistake; I fell in Love with Your Sin

When he was six, sitting in a church pew next to his mother with deep purple bruises on his ribs in the shape of her fists, Jim knew he was going to hell. It didn’t bother him much, nor did he care about the state of his eternal soul, mind going over the chemical equations and formulas of various poisons flitting to and fro like the rushing of white robed altar boys between the rows of parishioners collecting alms.  
During a particularly rousing sermon about morality at age nine Jim contemplates poisoning the communion wafers at random. It was meant to be an experiment on the psychological effects of mass panic and religion that the details are fairly hazy on even today, before he was willing to admit that the kind of chaos he wanted to create needed no reason. That was part of its charm to him, single bursts of indescribable hatred towards life itself giving birth to manic energy so strong that he had to channel it somewhere, into bombs with nails embedded into Semtex like ornate jewel setting, or a concoction of poisons that could bleed a man from every orifice AND liquefy his organs. He was twelve when the first pipe bomb had been planted in a neighbour’s mail box, faulty fuse and wiring stolen off of a botched construction job in his neighbourhood revealed to be the cause. Years later, when he just started his firm, the builders on the long forgotten project finally met a grisly end at the hand of bombs with much more efficient materials. He loved when a plan came full circle.  
Sebastian came into his life not very long afterwards, fresh off of being disowned and dishonourably discharged from service to Queen and Country, disillusioned with life and ready to drink himself into a never ending stupor which reminded Jim of his parents. However, Seb wouldn’t. He wasn’t allowed to, belonging to Jim ever since the criminal had glanced at the grainy surveillance footage purloined from a certain head of government’s computer. Whispers of a sniper who hunted tigers in his free time had been floating around his information networks for a bit more than eight months, causing much wary curiosity from a few competing firms. Jim could honestly care less at the time, more concerned with building his empire and the random cleaning house just to keep the underlings in line. He hated working with anyone but himself, despite a severe need for it. However, after hearing a particularly impossible story—something about a drain and a tiger, Jim had to see the man for himself. The rest was, as they say, was history.  
Sin was laughed at while they were together, God not entering the equation unless Jim was having a day where he had to fight with someone that was more mysterious and intangible than he was. Those days were hard, the genius so out of his mind all he could do was throw himself at walls, bookshelves, fists, anything that a body could be hurt by. A month ago one of those days barged into their lives unwelcome, Jim waking with a start and wandering off to the loo without a word. Crunching and shattering of glass followed, blood streaking white marble tiles, turning into a trail of bloody footprints leading into their parlour. All Seb could do was sit back and watch, listening to the giggling that turned into curses, screaming at someone, anyone, even God himself to come down so life wouldn’t be so fucking dull filling their flat.  
Two weeks after, in a confessional, flesh slid against flesh, thin layer of sweat on their skin the only thing allowed between the two of them. A priest was propped up in the adjacent booth, bullet nestled in hard oak behind him with a coating of fresh blood and gore fanned out like the halos of saintly icons behind him. While Sebastian was inside of him Jim conducted a confession, moaning obscenely in perfectly phrased Latin, broken only by small gasps and moans. Getting dressed gave the mastermind to consider how many rosaries he would have to say to make him absolved of whatever sin fucking in a confessional would count as. Fornication and blasphemy he decided with a laugh. The priest’s body was discovered by an unfortunate ten year old, burning with shame about touching himself, the holy messenger of God was later discovered to be sans a battered rosary.  
Now he was gone, eternal soul somewhere unpleasant where he’d thrive, never a dull day to be had whilst it was in need of a good conquering. Glass beads once holy, now poisoned with Jim’s touch was all Sebastian had left, cross charred from a butane torch used three days ago to melt nails onto a mace on a whim, subsequently used to beat a man’s head in order to see how many strokes it took to crack open a skull. The beads were surprisingly cool when they slid through the space between calloused pads of his index finger and thumb.  
Hail Moriarty, full of madness, all the flames of Hell is with thee; cursed art thou among snipers, and royally fucked is the fruit of thy conditioning, Sebastian Moran. Wicked Bastard, Owner of my soul, plan for this blessed sinner, now and at the hopefully swift and soon impending hour of my death. I fucking miss you, you horrible cunt. Amen.


End file.
